Title of Piece: Flirting with Danger
Universe: Monsters in the Mirror (takes place after #2)
Word Count: 2976
Notes: …You didn't think I forgot about you guys today, did you? I didn't. I was hoping to spend part of today working up a second part to "Hardware Rebuilding and Restoration" to post, but my brain is fried from an exam (on metabolic pathways, ugh) and four hours of neuroscience today. (Not to mention I woke up at 3:30 AM.) So I don't think I have more writing in me right now.
Instead, it feels like the time to explore more Deathstroke!Felicity. This has been written up for a while, but I've had trouble finding a direction to aim the rest of it. I think I have one as of right now, but, again, not really up to the whole writing thing today.
So, without further ado, enjoy! :)
John Diggle likes to think of himself as a patient man, but he also thinks Oliver Queen is trying to test that seemingly infinite pool of patience. For eight months now, he's been hired as the man's bodyguard, and for eight months, Queen has been slipping his leash, each way more creative and cunning than the last. The first time, he jumped out of a damn car, but it's been followed by trips to the bathroom that he's never returned from, slipping into crowds so well Diggle wonders if he had been trained by ARGUS, and—in one particularly memorable incident—getting into the car and driving away without anyone who accompanied him.
But the last straw was when Queen got the slip on him by choking him into unconsciousness—a particularly impressive feat in itself.
It's clear that Queen isn't interested in having a bodyguard, but John Diggle will be damned if he lets a partying billionaire put a blemish on his spotless protection record. So he resorts to more subtle methods of protecting Queen. Slipping a GPS tracker into his brown leather jacket and his multiple suit jackets had been easy enough, with Queen none the wiser.
The first time tracking him, Diggle had found the location odd; a shack in the middle of the Glades seemed like a place for a crack addict, not a billionaire. But after two months of this nonsense, he's accustomed to following Queen into the heart of the Glades to Ocean Avenue with regularity. Sometimes it's only twice a week, but most of the time, it's at least four.
When Diggle saw the petite blonde open the door that first time, he'd figured it as just another of Oliver Queen's revolving door of women. He'd told his mother earlier that same day that he was ditching his bodyguard to meet a woman, so he'd thought nothing of it originally. But then Queen kept coming back, sometimes with a computer that he'd hand to her.
This time it's earlier than usual when Queen's motorcycle pulls in at Ocean Avenue, an hour of the morning that Diggle wouldn't expect to find the billionaire awake. The blonde is already at the door with a handbag draped over her shoulder, turning around to call to someone in the house before bounding down the steps, simultaneously pushing her glasses up on her nose. The boy she must have been speaking to appears in the doorway, clearly several years her junior and wearing a red hoodie.
Queen hops off the motorcycle long enough for her to stash her bag in the storage compartment and to offer her a helmet from the compartment. She takes it, and Queen's hands fix over hers in an attempt to help her center it. She situates herself behind him after he climbs back on, her movements a little slower with what Diggle can only assume is unfamiliarity. Her hands—with turquoise nail polish, Digg notes—grip the Queen scion's waist, but he places his hands over hers, pulling her forward by locking her hands together around his middle.
Without any warning, he peels away from the curb, flying down the residential street like a bat out of Hell. Sighing, Digg starts the car, pulling up the GPS locator app on his phone. The boy is long gone, especially with the heavy morning traffic. Fortunately, though, Diggle manages to find a shortcut in Oliver's path, pulling across from Queen's location long enough to watch him drop the girl at an ancient building advertising computer repairs with a flickering neon sign.
Her hand lingers on Queen's bicep as she presumably says her goodbyes, turning toward the building with an awkward wave and a swing of her blonde ponytail. Queen, on the other hand, lingers for a moment, staring after her. Though Diggle can't see his expression because of the helmet, he thinks that the boy seems a little longing.
Interesting.
After Queen has already picked up the girl after her shift from work, Diggle decides it's time for a side venture. He walks into the repair shop with a smile, leaning over the counter to talk to the boy running the desk, probably not yet out of high school. "Hey, you guys put in a new hard drive for me a few weeks ago," he lies with a smile and a lightness to his voice he doesn't feel. "My buddy has having some trouble, and I wanted to tell him the name of the tech that fixed it for me—send some business your way, you know." He shrugs, offering a self-deprecating smile. "The only thing is, I can't remember her name—she was blonde, wore glasses?" He lets himself trail off into a question.
"Oh, that's Felicity," he answers immediately, "and I know she appreciates the referrals—the techs are paid a commission." He smiles, looking about as enamored with the girl as Queen had earlier, then hands Diggle a business card for the shop, writing the name on the back of it in a haphazard print: Felicity Smoak. Then he bites his lip. "She doesn't like us handing around her name, though."
Diggle throws his best smile. "I didn't stop by, then," he agrees easily. "Thank you so much—you've been a big help."
"I should take him some cookies," Felicity declares out of nowhere one Saturday morning, her tone surprisingly cheerful as she shoves a spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream into her mouth. Oliver thought her moods were limited to dark and brooding that first night, but over the course of the past two months, he's learned that she's rarely either of those things when she's not wearing her vigilante gear. Some days, she makes it easy to forget that he's watched her slice limbs from some of her victims, but other days, he's reminded quite clearly of it. "I wonder what he'd do if I walked up and introduced myself."
In the past two months he's known Felicity, she's been prone to jumping trains of thought without warning, and he's used to having her clarify. Still his eyebrows knit together in confusion; this is different, even for her. "Who are you talking about?" he asks, turning away from the building plans laid out in front of him, hoping he can convince her to work with him again. They've worked together a few times, but she seems perfectly content to pick her own targets and being some unlikely mix of friends and consultants.
"Your tail," she replies simply, throwing her head toward the window in a way that makes it look like she's rolling her neck. "I spotted him last week when my car broke down and you took me to work." She lifts a shoulder, as though this happens to both of them every day. "At first I thought he was on me, but I've only seen him when you're around."
Knowing it would be suspicious for him to look in the direction he pointed, Oliver asks, "What does he look like? Do you know him?" His eyes flick in the direction without tilting his head away from the blueprints, but all he can make out is a late-model Ford sedan—one that looks like every other car in the Glades.
Felicity's description is cold and impersonal, completely professional. "Mid-thirties, African-American," she says immediately, as though she's giving a police description. "Brown eyes, short-cropped black hair, arms twice the size of yours. Definitely ex-military." She pauses for a minute before adding as an afterthought, "Oh, and he wears really nice suits. Not as nice as yours, of course, but he didn't buy them from a K-Mart."
It causes him to sigh deeply. "That would be my bodyguard, John Diggle," he answers with a frown. "It sounds like he's upset that I keep disappearing on him." Though he admires the man's work ethic, he's less than pleased about the idea of having a babysitter follow him wherever he goes. "My mother thought that, after those men tried to attack Tommy and I, some extra protection was necessary." He doesn't state that it wasn't, but Felicity knows that better than anyone.
For some reason, it causes Felicity to break into a smile. "That is so cute—you have a babysitter," she teases. He doesn't find the humor in it, but a smile from her is rare, so he'll take one whenever he can get one. "I'm so glad you have someone to protect you from the bogeyman in your closet—especially because you're so defenseless." His frown deepens, and she chokes back part of a laugh. Admittedly, he can see the humor in the situation, since he could probably take the man down himself (and has before), but he doesn't want to encourage her. Even if her laughter is rare and infectious.
Throwing her a less-than-amused expression over his shoulder, he turns back to the blueprints. "The museum—" he starts, but she cuts through his sentence as though he wasn't speaking. It should frustrate him, but, truthfully, Oliver isn't used to people ignoring his attempts to change the subject and he finds it amusing.
"We can talk about that in a minute," she assures him, "but your shadow out there is of more importance." Her expression is all business now, not teasing any longer. "Last week, he showed up at my job just minutes after we did—and he didn't weave in and out of traffic like you did." Something about her expression is thoughtful. "He couldn't have done that in his little Ford." With no warning, she rises from the sofa, and Oliver watches her march toward the coat rack in the corner.
Instead of grabbing her own, she reaches for his gray zipup hoodie, pulling it on. The sight of her before him is absurd, even before that: her t-shirt with a green alien holding a pig that reads, "Tell me a story about giant pigs." It's nearly unnoticeable now under his hoodie, but her pajama pants—pigs in scarves and glasses—are colorful and stand out across the room. For the first time, though, he notices her feet are bare.
Without permission, she starts patting the pockets, feeling of the lining. Finally, she holds up a small, black disc in triumph, biting her lip as though she's trying not to laugh. "It looks like you're being stalked by your bodyguard," she says in a strangled voice. Then she holds up her hands. "That was the last one, I swear—I couldn't resist." Then she tilts her head to the side. "Does it ever occur to you how ridiculous your life is?" Finally she sobers. "Maybe you should leave it so he doesn't suspect anything."
Because he spends most of his time with Deathstroke (who likes to wear pig pajamas, apparently), his bodyguard slipped a GPS tracker on him, and wears a green hood at night, Oliver can honestly say he's given the absurdity of his life some thought. But that isn't important right now, not with a jewel thief on the loose. "It occurs to me," he starts pointedly, "that there's a jewel thief loose in this city who likes to use bomb collars, Felicity." She rolls her eyes and grumbles something under her breath about a one-track mind, but leans over the back of the couch to stare at the blueprint. "The museum has skylights and access tunnels that he could easily reach from the garage, where security is a lot easier to bypass," he tells her, pointing to each one. "One of these is how the Dodger got in. Then he would go to the museum floor, where the ruby was on display in here."
"If he decided to actually bypass security," she counters. When he turns to look at her in question, it's to find Felicity hopping over the back of the couch. She drops next to him so close that she's nearly in his lap, picking up another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it into her mouth. Her foot brushes against his leg, and, when he looks down, Oliver notices for the first time that her toes are painted the same color as her fingernails—except for her first toe, which is a sunny yellow smiley face. He shouldn't find that alluring or charming, but he finds himself fighting a smile.
"But you're thinking like a vigilante, Oliver—not a thief," she continues, and it takes him a moment to remember the thread of their conversation. Felicity pulls the spoon out of her mouth, leaning toward the coffee table and using the spoon to point to another doorway. "Thieves don't typically force their way in—even when they put bomb collars around people's necks. They sneak. It would be easy enough for him to fake a credential and slip past a guard with no one the wiser."
Abruptly, she turns back to Oliver, her face only inches from his. The phrase flirting with danger comes to mind; he could easily kiss her again if he wanted to—and he very much does. She's silent for a moment as if she doesn't notice, and her voice is slightly breathless when she continues, "But that doesn't matter." For a moment, he thinks Felicity is going to be the one to close the gap, but she rushes on an octave higher than normal, "You're not going to find the Dodger by his entrance strategy. It's more about the bait. You should find out what he goes after—what makes him tick. Then you won't have to go after him—he can come to you." She shrugs. "There has to be a veritable treasure trove in the Queen family vault. You could use something from it to trap him."
Oliver frowns when he hears the way she uses you instead of we. "You're sitting this one out, then?" he asks, and he can't say he isn't disappointed. Felicity is one of the few people in his life keeping him sane, and, though he's loath to admit it, he's barely slept since the night she let him into her bed.
Nodding, Felicity answers, "The Bratva is gearing up for something, and they've ordered several shipments of guns from my old bosses. I think I need to remind them that Starling City is off-limits." She sinks back against the couch as she looks at him. "But when you make your move for this guy, let me know and I'll try to back you up. I'd hate for this guy to run off with your family jewels." Oliver can't stop his eyebrows from rising at that one, and she cringes. "I was referring to actual jewels in the Queen family vault," she rushes to say, "not making a reference to your—" She breaks off, motioning to the area in question again before cringing again. "Making innuendos worse is my superpower, apparently."
He decides it's better to ignore it this once, for the sake of his own sanity. "I'll call you," he assures her, finding the thread of the conversation again. With one final indulgence, he presses his lips to her temple again before rising to his feet and gathering the blueprints. "And let me know if I can be of any use on your Bratva mission." Though he knows she doesn't need him, Oliver also knows that sometimes it's better with two.
"Roger that," Felicity answers with cheer and a smile. "You'll be my first call." She licks her bottom lip then, hesitating for a moment as the smile vanishes without warning. "Oliver, you know you can always stay with me whenever you want, right?" she asks, as though she can read his mind. If it were anyone else, it would be unnerving, but Oliver has since come to terms with the fact that Felicity has the uncanny ability to understand him. "Just like after Tommy found out, I mean," she clarifies, alluding to the fact that he's welcome in her bed anytime. She confirms it with a quiet continuation of the thought, biting her lip hesitantly. "With me," she repeats with emphasis. Then she rises to her feet, pacing for a moment before uttering the next quiet thought. "I get lonely sometimes, too—the dark kind of lonely that eats away at me at night, the kind that most people don't understand. But I think you know what I mean."
He does, all too well. Oliver stops her mid-pace, pulling her into his arms before he realizes that they don't do this. In truth, he surprises himself; it's been a long time since he's wanted to initiate contact with anyone, but Felicity is always the exception. Sometimes when she does this—when her mood changes this abruptly—he realizes that the tough exterior protects something far softer on the inside. Most of the time she manages to make him think she's unbreakable, but every once in a while, he's reminded that she still has vulnerabilities, doubts, and fears. He's sure they share many of the same ones.
Though he fully expects her to recoil, Felicity wraps her arms around his waist as though her life depends upon it. After taking a moment to savor the feeling, Oliver assures her quietly, "That offer goes both ways, Felicity—you can always call me. It doesn't matter what time. I'll always answer, and, if you want me to, I'll always come over." With reluctance, he manages to pull away before adding hesitantly, "I'll see you tonight."
He manages to take several steps toward the door before Felicity calls, "Oh, you forgot your jacket." Oliver notices, however, that she makes no unzip it or take it off, just standing in front of the couch in the too-large hoodie.
He only winks at her. "It looks better on you, anyway," he replies before ducking out the door.